


There's Always Room For One More

by guttersharkk



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Mike has a bad habit of taking in strays, Mikenanaweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 12:06:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5743219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guttersharkk/pseuds/guttersharkk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike has a couple bad habits - collecting strays and lying to his wife about it, for one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's Always Room For One More

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of domestic fluff inspired by MikeNana week.

Headlights cut through the sluice of the storm against the window pane, casting golden beams across the open novel in her lap and drawing her attention to the driveway. She’s spent the last two hours fretting over unanswered messages and her husband’s missing half-ton, fearing the worst when a vehicle finally pulls up. If it isn’t Mike – she can’t quite bear the thought; her throat closes as she steels the effort to rise from the couch, tossing aside the book barely read, a distraction for her thoughts. Outside the rain is falling so hard and so thick she can’t quite determine the make or model of the truck – but it is a truck, a good sign. Heavy footsteps drum up the front stoop and the weight of someone – or something – pushes hard against the door. A trio of mid-sized mutts are instantly at her heels, barking their fool heads off as the doorbell rings. Repeatedly.

“Nan – a little help, please?”

Mike’s voice is loud despite the coincidental rumble of thunder, soothing but hurried. Nanaba can’t be sure why he’s refusing to use his house key, but she swallows a sigh of relief and complies – ready to give him a piece of her mind for scaring her half to death. “ _Michael James Zacharias_ , where the hell have… you-” the scolding dies on her lips at the sight of the man drenched to the bone, cradling a small lump in one of their old saddle blankets. He looks pathetic, really and truly, cheeks flushed against the cold spring rain, hair plastered to the edges of his face. She ushers him in, not quite bringing herself to tear him a new one as she toes the dogs aside and locks the door behind him.

“I tried to call. I’m sorry – you know how reception is out here,” Mike murmurs as he kicks off his shoes, juggling the bundle in one hand to push hair off his face with the other.

“You’re soaked, you’re two hours late, and what on Earth is that?” she grumbles, the fire smoldering in her eyes as she gestures to the blanket wrapped end over end in his grasp, immediately suspicious when the dogs stop their barking in favor of audible snuffling, “That better not be what I think it is, Mike, so help me.”  


“It’s not.”

“Good,” she sighs heavily and takes the lump from her husband, cradling it to her chest, close enough to see the tip of a dark nose wiggling between the folds. “Now get yourself into some dry clothes and grab a couple towels for this not-a-stray-dog you didn’t bring home to your anxious wife.”

She’s joking, mostly, and the smile Mike offers her – like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar – is enough to relieve any tensions left between them. Nanaba can’t really fault him; her heart sinks at the sight of the poor thing as she unravels it on the kitchen floor, a terrier of some kind, all skin and bones and trembling. It looks up at her with sad eyes and sinks to its belly, tail flattened between its legs. “Sweet baby,” she coos softly, barricading the creature between her legs. Upon his return in much drier jeans and a t-shirt, Mike drapes a towel over her outstretched hand and she goes immediately to sponging water from its wiry coat with care. “Where did you find him?” she asks quietly, blue eyes seeking green ones as the blonde settles down beside her.

“In the slough east of Moore’s property,” he cracks open a Tupperware container from the fridge – leftover steak from the night before. He tears it into small pieces with his bare hands and offers bits to the stray; they watch, relieved, as he gobbles them down eagerly between toweling sessions.  


“Maybe it’s Moore’s then?” she asks, brow furrowed with concern.  


“Maybe. But I doubt it.  


“You should call him in the morning anyway.”  


“Mhmm.”  


Mike shifts at her side and drops his head to her shoulder; she presses a lingering kiss to his forehead – still damp from the rain. It’s a noncommittal promise, but Nanaba doesn’t mention it, “Have you got a name yet?”  


“I thought you said no more dogs.”

She shrugs her free shoulder and plucks a shred of steak from a much larger hand, smiling as the dog between them snaps it up and licks her fingers, “That didn’t stop you bringing home the other three.” Her gaze drifts to the baby gate sectioning the kitchen from the living room where their small herd of fur-children are perched in waiting, desperately curious to meet the new addition. Nanaba tosses a couple chunks of meat across the barricade and eyes them carefully, ascertaining they all get at least a nibble. “You’re always coming home with these big, energetic farm dogs… At least this one’s a reasonable size.”

An affirmative noise rumbles deep in her husband’s chest and a comfortable silence settles between them. She listens to the roll of thunder in the distance and the hammer of rain on the roof above; the stray continues to lap at her fingertips and Mike’s breath is warm on her neck, comfortable, reassuring. Nanaba doesn’t mind that no one claims the dog come morning. There’s always room for one more in their household.  



End file.
